YB  53 


SB    31t    S7T 
California  Classics  series 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT    OF 


Class 


CALIFORNIA  CLASSICS  SERIES 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard 


California  Classics  Series 


Charles  Warren  Stoddard 


Apostrophe  to  the    Skylark 
The  Bells  of  San  Gabriel 

Joe  of  Lahaina 
Father   Damien   Among   His   Lepers 


An  Appreciation  of 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

By  George  Whartozi  "J 


Arroyo  Guild  Press,  Los  Angeles,  California 


24' 

V 

Copyright,   19O9,  by 
George   Wharton   James 


CONTENTS 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  by  Mary  E.  Mannix 6 

Introduction,  by  the  Publisher 7 

Apostrophe  to  the  Skylark,  by  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 9 

The  Bells  of  San  Gabriel,  by  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 15 

with  five  pages  in  fac-simile  from  manuscript 

Joe  of  Lahaina,  by  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 25 

Father  Damien  Among  His  Lepers,  by  Charles  Warren  Stoddard . .  39 
An  Appreciation,  by  George  Wharton  James 45 

224592 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 


Rest  to  thy  valiant  soul,  oft  tempest-tossed, 
That  never  for  an  hour  its  anchor  lost, 
But  clasped  Faith's  standard  closer,  day  by  day, 
Through  every  turning  of  thy  checkered  way. 

Thou  who  didst  joy  in  every  beauteous  thing, 
Thy  pulses  tuned  to  every  throb  of  spring, 
Thou  who  didst  suffer  as  that  mortal  must, 
Whose  winged  footsteps  soar  above  the  dust! 

Surpeme  word-artist,  whose  bright  pen  could  paint 
All  Nature's  moods — a  savage  or  a  saint, — 
Leading  us  spell-bound  with  thy  harmonies 
Through  Northern  glades,  o'er  languorous  Southern  Seas, 
Welcomed  and  sheltered  safe  at  last  thou  art, 
In  God's  deep  harbor — Rest  thee,  troubled  heart! 

— Mary  E.  Mannix. 


INTRODUCTION 


THIS  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  California  Classics,  to  be  issued  monthly,  or  as  often 
as  demand  arises.  Each  issue  will  consist  of  selections  from  the  work  of  some 
California  author  that  are  deemed  specially  worthy  and  appropriate  for  this 
series,  and  will  generally  be  followed  by  a  short  sketch  of  the  life  or  appreciation  of 
the  work  of  the  author.  It  is  the  intention  to  include  in  the  series  (provided  the  plan 
meets  with  public  approval)  W.  C.  Bartlett,  John  Muir,  Edward  Rowland  Sill,  Luther 
Burbank,  Prentice  Mulford,  Sarah  Carmichel,  Bret  Harte,  Mark  Twain,  Ina  Coolbrith, 
W.  L.  Manly,  Frances  Fuller  Victor,  Joaquin  Miller,  Ambrose  Bierce,  Edwin  Mark- 
ham,  Clarence  King,  Gertrude  Atherton,  Millicent  Shinn,  Gelett  Burgess,  Wallace 
Irwin,  Charles  F.  Lummis,  George  Sterling,  Frank  Morris,  Jack  London,  Mary  Austin, 
Frank  Pixley,  Hubert  Howe  Bancroft,  Robert  J.  Burdette,  Virginia  Reed  Murphy, 
Edward  W.  Townsend  (Chimmie  Fadden),  Charles  Frederick  Holder,  Noah  Brooks, 
Herman  Scheffauer,  Palmer  Cox,  R.  W.  Tully,  Eleanor  Gates,  Herman  Whitaker,  Idah 
M.  Strobridge,  Josephine  Clifford  McCrackin,  Geraldine  Bonner,  Frances  Charles, 
Miriam  Michelson,  Henry  George,  Walter  Colton,  Ross  Browne,  P.  V.  Mighels,  Paul 
Shoup,  Stewart  Edward  White,  Theo.  H.  Hittell,  David  Starr  Jordan,  Charles  Keeler, 
James  King  of  Wm.,  Padre  Palou,  Wm.  H.  Rhodes  (Caxton),  Starr  King,  Willis  George 
Emerson,  Chas.  K.  Field,  John  Vance  Cheney,  Adeline  Knapp,  John  S.  McGroarty,  W. 


California  Classics  Series  8 

E.  Smythe,  Belle  E.  Smith,  Jerome  Hart,  Bailey  Millard,  Sam  Davis,  Louis  Alexander 
Robinson,  Bartholomew  Dowling,  Elizabeth  Grinnell,  Joseph  LeConte,  Richard  Realf, 
Harriet  Skidmore,  Edward  Pollock,  Margaret  Collier  Graham.  Edward  Robeson  Tay 
lor,  Olive  Thorne  Miller,  T.  S.  VanDyke,  Madge  Morris  Wagner,  Herbert  Bashford, 
Sharlot  Hall,  Lionel  Josaphare,  Lorenzo  Sosso,  and  others. 


APOSTROPHE   TO   THE   SKYLARK 

Charles   Warren    Stoddard 


APOSTROPHE   TO    THE   SKYLARK 


I  crossed  the  railroad  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  meadows,  and 
having  got  safely  into  the  meadow  beyond,  I  came  to  a  land  of  peace, 
where  sheep  were  munching  young  grass,  up  to  their  eyes  in  wool. 
They  muched  and  munched  and  stared  with  their  blank,  shallow, 
buttonlike  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  sewed  into  their  ridiculous  faces, 
all  the  while  standing  so  still  it  seemed  as  if  their  stilt-like  legs  must 
have  been  driven  a  little  way  into  the  sod.  There  is  a  long  path  over 
the  meadow — one  cannot  help  following  it  with  some  cheerfulness, 
for  unnumbered  pilgrims  have  beaten  it  down  with  much  passing  to 
and  fro — and,  before  many  steps  are  taken,  Stratford  is  forgotten,  and 
there  is  nothing  left  in  all  the  world  so  dear  as  the  short  sweet  grass, 
the  browsing  sheep,  the  hedges,  and  the  song-birds.  In  the  midst  of 
lush  grass,  compassed  about  by  limitless  greensward,  the  trees  whose 
bark  was  black  with  rain,  and  more  of  those  bland-faced  sheep,  I 
heard  a  voice  that  was  as  a  new  interpretation  of  nature — a  piping, 


California  Classics  Series  16 


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California  Classics  Series  18 

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THE    BELLS    OF   SAN    GABRIEL 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

From  *C"Ae  5unsef  Magazine 

Thine  was  the  corn  and  the  wine, 

The  blood  of  the  grape  that  nourished ; 
The  blossom  and  fruit  of  the  vine 

That  was  heralded  far  away. 
These  were  thy  gifts;  and  thine, 

When  the  vine  and  the  fig-tree  flourished, 
The  promise  of  peace  or  of  glad  increase 

Forever  and  ever  and  aye. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

Answer  me,  O,  I  pray! 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


21  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

Oil  of  the  olive  was  thine; 

Flood  of  the  wine-press  flowing; 
Blood  o'  the  Christ  was  the  wine- — 

Blood  o*  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 
Thy  gifts  were  fat  o'  the  kine 

Forever  coming  and  going 
Far  over  the  hills,  the  thousand  hills — 

Their  lowing  a  soft  refrain. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

Answer  me,  once  again! 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


California  Classics  Series  22 

Seed  o'  the  corn  was  thine — 

Body  of  Him  thus  broken 
And  mingled  with  blood  o'  the  vine — 

The  bread  and  the  wine  of  life ; 
Out  of  the  good  sunshine 

They  were  given  to  thee  as  a  token, 
The  body  of  Him,  and  the  blood  of  Him, 

When  the  gifts  of  God  were  rife. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

After  the  weary  strife? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


23  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

Where  are  they  now,  O,  bells? 

Where  are  the  fruits  o'  the  mission? 
Garnered  where  no  one  dwells, 

Shepherd  and  Hock  are  fled. 
O'er  the  Lord's  vineyard  swells 

The  tide  that  with  fell  perdition 
Sounded  their  doom  and  fashioned  their  tomb 

And  buried  them  with  the  dead. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

The  answer  is  still  unsaid. 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 

Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


California  Classics  Series  24 

Where  are  they  now,  O  tower! 

The  locusts  and  wild  honey? 
Where  is  the  sacred  dower 

That  the  bride  of  Christ  was  given? 
Gone  to  the  wielders  of  power, 

The  misers  and  minters  of  money; 
Gone  for  the  greed  that  is  their  creed — 

And  these  in  the  land  have  thriven. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

And  wherefore  hast  thou  striven? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 

Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Chas.  Warren  Stoddard. 
Monterey,  California,  1906. 


JOE   OF   LAHAINA 

Charles   Warren    Stoddard 


JOE    OF   LAHAINA 


I  WAS  stormed  in  at  Lahaina.  Now,  Lahaina  is  a  little  slice  of 
civilization,  beached  on  the  shore  of  barbarism.  One  can  easily 
stand  that  little  of  it,  for  brown  and  brawny  heathendom  becomes 
more  wonderful  and  captivating  by  contrast.  So  I  was  glad  of  dear, 
drowsy,  little  Lahaina;  and  was  glad,  also,  that  she  had  but  one  broad 
street,  which  possibly  led  to  destruction,  and  yet  looked  lovely  in  the 
distance.  It  didn't  matter  to  me  that  the  one  broad  street  had  but  one 
side  to  it ;  for  the  sea  lapped  over  the  sloping  sands  on  its  lower  edge, 
and  the  sun  used  to  set  right  in  the  face  of  every  solitary  citizen  of 
Lahaina,  just  as  he  went  to  supper. 

I  was  waiting  to  catch  a  passage  in  a  passing  schooner,  and  that's 
why  I  came  there ;  but  the  schooner  flashed  by  us  in  a  great  gale  from 
the  south,  and  so  I  was  stormed  in  indefinitely. 

It  was  Holy  Week,  and  I  concluded  to  go  to  housekeeping,  because 
it  would  be  so  nice  to  have  my  frugal  meals  in  private,  to  go  to  mass 


California  Classics  Series  28 

and  vespers  daily,  and  then  to  come  back  and  feel  quite  at  home.  My 
villa  was  suburban — built  of  dried  grasses  on  the  model  of  a  haystack 
dug  out  in  the  middle,  with  doors  and  windows  let  into  the  four  sides 
thereof.  It  was  planted  in  the  midst  of  a  vineyard,  with  avenues 
stretching  in  all  directions  under  a  network  of  stems  and  tendrils. 

"Her  breath  is  sweeter  than  the  sweet  winds 
That  breathe  over  the  grape-blossoms  of  Lahaina." 

So  the  song  said ;  and  I  began  to  think  upon  the  surpassing  sweetness 
of  that  breath,  as  I  inhaled  the  sweet  winds  of  Lahaina,  while  the 
wilderness  of  its  vineyards  blossomed  like  the  rose.  I  used  to  sit  in 
my  veranda  and  turn  to  Joe  (Joe  was  my  private  and  confidential 
servant),  and  I  would  say  to  Joe,  while  we  scented  the  odor  of  grape, 
and  saw  the  great  banana-leaves  waving  their  cambric  sails,  and  heard 
the  sea  moaning  in  the  melancholy  distance — I  would  say  to  him, 


29  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

"Joe,  housekeeping  is  good  fun,  isn't  it?"  Whereupon  Joe  would  utter 
a  sort  of  unanimous  Yes,  with  his  whole  body  and  soul ;  so  that  ques 
tion  was  carried  triumphantly,  and  we  would  relapse  into  a  comfort 
able  silence,  while  the  voices  of  the  wily  singers  down  on  the  river 
front  would  whisper  to  us,  and  cause  us  to  wonder  what  they  could 
possibly  be  doing  at  that  moment  in  the  broad  way  that  led  to  destruc 
tion.  Then  we  would  take  a  drink  of  cocoa-milk,  and  finish  our 
bananas,  and  go  to  bed,  because  we  had  nothing  else  to  do. 

This  is  the  way  that  we  began  our  co-operative  housekeeping :  One 
night,  when  there  was  a  riotous  sort  of  festival  off  in  a  retired  valley, 
I  saw,  in  the  excited  throng  of  natives  who  were  going  mad  over 
their  national  dance,  a  young  face  that  seemed  to  embody  a  whole 
tropical  romance.  On  another  night,  when  a  lot  of  us  were  bathing 
in  the  moonlight,  I  saw  a  figure  so  fresh  and  joyous  that  I  began  to 
realize  how  the  old  Greeks  could  worship  mere  physical  beauty  and 


California  Classics  Series  30 

forget  its  higher  forms.  Then  I  discovered  that  face  on  this  body — a 
rare  enough  combination — and  the  whole  constituted  Joe,  a  young 
scapegrace  who  was  schooling  at  Lahaina,  under  the  eye — not  a  very- 
sharp  one — of  his  uncle.  When  I  got  stormed  in,  and  resolved  on 
housekeeping  for  a  season,  I  took  Joe,  bribing  his  uncle  to  keep  the 
peace,  which  he  promised  to  do,  provided  I  gave  bonds  for  Joe's  irre 
proachable  conduct  while  with  me.  I  willingly  gave  bonds — verbal 
ones — for  this  was  just  what  I  wanted  of  Joe:  namely,  to  instil  into 
his  youthful  mind  those  counsels  which,  if  rigorously  followed,  must 
result  in  his  becoming  a  true  and  unterrified  American.  This  compact 
settled,  Joe  took  up  his  bed — a  roll  of  mats — and  down  we  marched 
to  my  villa,  and  began  housekeeping  in  good  earnest. 

We  soon  got  settled,  and  began  to  enjoy  life,  though  we  were  not 
without  occasional  domestic  infelicities.  For  instance,  Joe  would 
wake  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  declaring  to  me  that  it  was  morn- 


31  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

ing,  and  thereupon  insist  upon  sweeping  out  at  once,  and  in  the  most 
vigorous  manner.  Having  Riled  the  air  with  dust,  he  would  rush  off 
to  the  baker's  for  our  hot  rolls  and  a  pat  of  breakfast  butter,  leaving 
me,  meantime,  to  recover  as  I  might.  Having  settled  myself  for  a 
comfortable  hour's  reading,  bolstered  up  in  a  luxurious  fashion,  Joe 
would  enter  with  breakfast,  and  orders  to  the  effect  that  it  be  eaten 
at  once  and  without  delay.  It  was  useless  for  me  to  remonstrate  with 
him;  he  was  tyrannical. 

He  got  me  into  all  sorts  of  trouble.  It  was  Holy  Week,  and  I  had* 
resolved  upon  going  to  mass  and  vespers  daily.  I  went.  The  soft 
night-winds  floated  in  through  the  latticed  windows  of  the  chapel,  and 
made  the  candles  flicker  upon  the  altar.  The  little  throng  of  natives 
bowed  in  the  oppressive  silence,  and  were  deeply  moved.  It  was  rest 
for  the  soul  to  be  there;  yet,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  while  the  Father, 
with  his  pale,  sad  face,  gave  his  instructions,  to  which  we  listened  as 


California  Classics  Series  32 

attentively  as  possible — for  there  was  something  in  his  manner  and 
his  voice  that  made  us  better  creatures — while  we  listened,  in  the 
midst  of  it  I  heard  a  shrill  little  whistle,  a  sort  of  chirp,  that  I  knew 
perfectly  well.  It  was  Joe,  sitting  on  a  cocoa-stump  in  the  garden 
adjoining,  and  beseeching  me  to  come  out,  right  off.  When  service 
was  over  I  remonstrated  with  him  for  his  irreverence.  "Joe,"  I  said, 
"if  you  have  no  respect  for  religion  yourself,  respect  those  who  are 
more  fortunate  than  you."  But  Joe  was  dressed  in  his  best,  and  quite 
wild  at  the  entrancing  loveliness  of  the  night.  "Let's  walk  a  little," 
said  Joe,  covered  with  fragrant  wreaths,  and  redolent  of  cocoanut-oil. 
What  could  I  do?  If  I  had  tried  to  do  anything  to  the  contrary,  he 
might  have  taken  me  and  thrown  me  away  somewhere  into  a  well  or 
a  jungle,  and  then  I  could  no  longer  hope  to  touch  the  chord  of  re 
morse — which  chord  I  sought  vainly,  and  which  I  have  since  concluded 
was  not  in  Joe's  physical  corporation  at  all.  So  we  walked  a  little. 


33  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

In  vain  I  strove  to  break  Joe  of  the  shocking  habit  of  whistling  me 
out  of  vespers.  He  would  persist  in  doing  it.  Moreover,  during  the 
day  he  would  collect  crusts  of  bread  and  banana-skins,  station  himself 
in  ambush  behind  the  curtain  of  the  window  next  the  lane,  and,  as 
some  solitary  creature  strode  solemnly  past,  Joe  would  discharge  a 
volley  of  ammunition  over  him,  and  then  laugh  immoderately  at  his 
indignation  and  surprise.  Joe  was  my  pet  elephant,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  play  with  him  very  cautiously. 

One  morning  he  disappeared.  I  was  without  the  consolation  of  a 
breakfast,  even.  I  made  my  toilet,  went  to  my  portmanteau  for  my 
purse — for  I  had  decided  upon  a  visit  to  the  baker — when  lo !  part  of 
my  slender  means  had  mysteriously  disappeared.  Joe  was  gone,  and 
the  money  also.  All  day  I  thought  about  it.  In  the  morning,  after  a 
very  long  and  miserable  night,  I  woke  up,  and  when  I  opened  my 
eyes,  there,  in  the  doorway,  stood  Joe,  in  a  brand-new  suit  of  clothes, 


California  Classics  Series  34 

including  boots  and  hat.  He  was  gorgeous  beyond  description,  and 
seemed  overjoyed  to  see  me,  and  as  merry  as  though  nothing  unusual 
had  happened.  I  was  quite  startled  at  this  apparition.  "Joseph!"  I 
said  in  my  severest  tone,  and  then  turned  over  and  looked  away  from 
him.  Joe  evaded  the  subject  in  the  most  delicate  manner,  and  was 
never  so  interesting  as  at  that  moment.  He  sang  his  specialties,  and 
played  clumsily  upon  his  bamboo  flute — to  soothe  me,  I  suppose — 
and  wanted  me  to  eat  a  whole  flat  pie  which  he  had  brought  home  as 
a  peace-offering,  buttoned  tightly  under  his  jacket.  I  saw  I  must 
strike  at  once,  if  I  struck  at  all ;  so  I  said,  "Joe,  what  on  earth  did  you 
do  with  that  money?"  Joe  said  he  had  replenished  his  wardrobe,  and 
bought  the  flat  pie  especially  for  me.  "Joseph,"  I  said,  with  great 
dignity,  "do  you  know  that  you  have  been  stealing,  and  that  it  is 
highly  sinful  to  steal,  and  may  result  in  something  unpleasant  in  the 
world  to  come?"  Joe  said,  "Yes,"  pleasantly,  though  I  hardly  think 


35  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

he  meant  it;  and  then  he  added,  mildly,  "that  he  couldn't  lie" — which 
was  a  glaring  falsehood — "but  wanted  me  to  be  sure  that  he  took  the 
money,  and  so  had  come  back  to  tell  me." 

"Joseph,"  I  said,  "y°u  remind  me  of  our  noble  Washington;"  and, 
to  my  amazement,  Joe  was  mortified.  He  didn't,  of  course,  know  who 
Washington  was,  but  he  suspected  that  I  was  ridiculing  him.  He 
came  to  the  bed  and  haughtily  insisted  upon  my  taking  the  little 
change  he  had  received  from  his  customers,  but  I  implored  him  to  keep 
it,  as  I  had  no  use  at  all  for  it,  and,  as  I  had  assured  him,  I  much 
preferred  hearing  it  jingle  in  his  pocket. 

The  next  day  I  sailed  out  of  Lahaina,  and  Joe  came  to  the  beach 
with  his  new  trousers  tucked  into  his  new  boots,  while  he  waved  his 
new  hat  violently  in  a  final  adieu,  much  to  the  envy  and  admiration  of 
a  score  of  hatless  urchins,  who  looked  upon  Joe  as  the  glass  of  fashion, 
and  but  little  lower  than  the  angels.  When  I  entered  the  boat  to  set 


California  Classics  Series  36 

sail,  a  tear  stood  in  Joe's  bright  eye,  and  I  think  he  was  really  sorry 
to  part  with  me;  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it,  because  our  housekeeping 
experiences  were  new  to  him — and,  I  may  add,  not  unprofitable. 

— From  South  Sea  Idylls. 


FATHER   DAMIEN   AMONG   HIS   LEPERS 

Charles  Warren   Stoddard 


FATHER  DAMIEN  AMONG  HIS  LEPERS 


IN  those  last  days  I  used  to  seek  the  Father  and  find  him,  now  at 
the  top  of  a  ladder,  hammer  and  nail  in  hand;  or  in  the  garden,  or 

the  hospital  ward,  or  the  kitchen,  or  away  on  a  sick-call,  as  the 
case  might  be.  It  was  seldom  he  could  sit  with  me,  for  not  a  moment 
was  he  really  free.  Once  I  captured  him,  on  a  plea  of  paying  my 
parting  call.  With  the  greatest  reluctance,  and  only  at  my  urgent  re 
quest,  he  went  in  search  of  his  decoration.  It  was  found  in  its  neat 
morocco  case,  hidden  away  in  an  unvisited  corner,  with  the  dust  an 
inch  thick  on  it.  "It  is  not  for  this  that  I  am  here,"  said  he,  dis 
paragingly;  and  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  never  put  the  riband 
about  his  neck;  indeed  he  had  hardly  looked  at  the  bauble  since  the 
day  when  the  Bishop  desired  him  to  wear  it  for  the  gratification  of 
his  simple  flock. 

Once  I  wandered  alone  into  the  chapel;  a  small  organ  was  stand 
ing  near  an  open  window ;  beyond  the  window  was  the  very  pandanus 


California  Classics  Series  40 

tree  under  which  Father  Damien  found  shelter  when  he  first  came  to 
Kalawao.  I  sat  at  the  instrument,  dreaming  over  the  keys,  and  think 
ing  of  the  life  one  must  lead  in  such  a  spot;  of  the  need  and  the  lack 
of  human  sympathy;  of  the  solitude  of  the  soul  destined  to  a  com 
munion  with  perpetual  death — and,  hearing  a  slight  rustling  near  me, 
I  turned,  and  found  the  chapel  nearly  filled  with  lepers,  who  had 
silently  stolen  in,  one  after  another,  at  the  sound  of  the  organ.  The 
situation  was  rather  startling;  but  when  I  asked  where  Father  Da- 
mien  might  be  found  they  directed  me,  and  stood  aside  to  let  me  pass. 
I  found  him  where  I  might  have  known  he  was  likely  to  be  found, 
working  bravely  among  his  men,  he  by  far  the  most  industrious  of 
them  all.  As  I  approached  them  unobserved,  the  bell  of  the  little 
chapel  rang  out  the  Angelus ;  on  the  instant  they  all  knelt,  uncovered, 
and  in  their  midst  the  priest  recited  the  beautiful  prayer,  to  which 
they  responded  in  soft,  low  voices, — while  the  gentle  breeze  rustled 


41  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

the  broad  leaves  about  them,  and  the  sun  poured  a  flood  of  glory 
upon  their  bowed  forms.  Lepers  all  of  them,  save  the  good  pastor, 
and  soon  to  follow  in  the  ghastly  procession,  whose  motionless  bodies 
he  blesses  in  their  peaceful  sleep. 

Angelus  Domini !    Was  not  that  sight  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  God? 

— From  The  Lepers  of  Molokai. 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 

George    Wharton    James 


CHARLES  WARREN  STODDARD 


An   Appreciation 

There  is  a  familiar  old  adage  which  reads:  "He  who  has  friends  must  show 
himself  friendly."  Never  did  an  old  saw  find  a  truer  "modern  instance"  than  did 
this  as  manifested  in  the  life  of  the  poet-philosopher,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 
He  was  affectionately  termed  by  thousands  of  people,  "Charlie  Stoddard,"  even  by 
those  who  had  never  personally  met  him,  because  those  who  did  know  him  gen 
erally  gave  him  this  sign  of  near  comradeship  and  affection.  He  had  a  great  big 
heart  that  was  moved  to  love  the  Holy  Father  upon  his  papal  throne,  or  the  poor 
waif  in  the  streets,  and  every  grade  and  type  between.  Aye,  he  went  further,  he 
had  love  and  sympathy  to  spare  for  the  abused  dog  or  mule  whose  master  did 
not  know  enough  to  appreciate  the  faithfulness  and  devotion  of  these  so-called 
lower  animals. 

And  yet,  with  all  this  wealth  of  affection,  he  was  a  poor  judge  of  human 
nature  who  imagined  that  Stoddard  was  incapable  of  seeing  the  failings  of  men. 
He  was  keenly  alive  to  the  evil  and  weak  as  well  as  the  good  and  strong,  but  his 
soul  was  so  attuned  to  the  sympathy  that  we  call  Divine,  that  he  was  able  to  love 
in  spite  of  the  unlovable  elements  in  those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 


California  Classics  Series  46 

I  thus  emphasize  this  feature  of  the  life  of  Stoddard  for  I  feel  that  it  was 
one  of  the  chief — if  not  the  chief — element  in  his  wonderfully  cosmopolite  nature. 
It  explains  so  many  things  that  the  critical  cannot  understand — as,  for  instance, 
his  devoted  friendship  and  life  with  the  Sandwich  Islanders;  his  close  association 
with  the  Bohemian  members  of  the  dramatic  profession;  his  intimacy  with  ascetic 
priests  and  the  most  refined,  pure  and  cultivated  women;  his  "at-homeness"  with 
men  of  world-renown  as  statesmen,  men-of-letters,  artists  and  the  like.  He  was 
the  intimate  friend  and  bosom  companion  of  Mark  Twain;  and  Kipling,  Steven 
son,  Bret  Harte,  and  scores  of  other  geniuses  felt  honored  as  well  as  charmed  by 
his  fellowship  and  association.  For  there  was  not  only  this  great  and  prime  ele 
ment  of  loveableness  in  his  make-up,  but  there  were  other  qualities  of  mind  and 
soul  that  appealed  strongly  to  all  these  differing  types  of  humanity. 

One  of  these  was  his  frank  ingenuousness.  He  was  always  "as  simple  as  a 
child."  Anyone  who  knew  him  could  see  his  inner  heart  reflected  in  every  thing 
he  said  and  wrote,  and  could  well  believe  the  statement  he  inscribed  on  the  fly 
leaf  of  his  "For  the  Pleasure  of  His  Company,"  which  he  sent  to  me:  "Here  you 
have  my  confessions.  This  is  one  of  the  truest  stories  ever  told.  Do  not  think 
me  egotistical:  I  am  merely  painfully  ingenuous."  And  he  signed  this,  not  only 


47  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

with  his  own  name,  but  also  with  that  of  the  "hero"  of  the  book,  Paul  Clitheroe. 

All  of  his  books,  from  the  first  to  the  last,  possess  this  rare  quality.  Let  us 
look  at  them  for  a  moment  with  this  thought  mainly  in  view,  for  it  will  be  seen 
to  have  actually  dominated  his  whole  literary  life. 

"South  Sea  Idylls"  were  originally  letters  of  his  personal  experiences,  written 
to  a  friend  in  California,  with  the  expectation  that  they  would  be  published  in 
one  of  the  San  Francisco  newspapers.  In  his  own  naive  and  delightfully  simple 
fashion,  he  tells  what  he  saw,  felt  and  experienced,  and  it  is  this  fresh,  unspoiled, 
child-heart  revealing  its  inner  thought  in  choice,  poetic,  epigramatic,  rippling  Eng 
lish  that  gives  the  main  charm  to  the  book. 

"Hawaiian  Life,  or  Lazy  Letters  from  Low  Latitudes,"  and  "The  Island  of 
Tranquil  Delights,"  are  similar  heart  out-pourings  of  personal  experiences  in  the 
dear  tropic  islands  he  loved  so  well,  as  is  also  "The  Lepers  of  Molokai,"  the  record 
of  the  especial  work  of  Father  Damien  among  the  poor  outcasts  on  the  lonely 
shores  of  that  sad  island. 

Few  other  men  could  have  written  such  books  as  his  "Exits  and  Entrances," 
"In  the  Footprints  of  the  Padres,"  and  "Over  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  Alaska," 
for  they  are  so  brim-full  of  personal  matter  that  with  anyone  else  the  reader  would 


California  Classics  Series  48 

feel  that  the  author  was  a  bundle  of  conceit  and  egotism.  Yet  not  only  do  you 
not  feel  anything  of  the  kind  in  reading  these  books,  but,  on  the  contrary,  you  feel 
honored  and  flattered  that  this  keen-brained  and  poetic  man  has  taken  you  into 
his  intimate  confidence  and  given  you  to  know  how  he  saw  and  felt  about  the 
things  described.  Equally  so  is  it  with  the  semi-religious  books  he  wrote:  "The 
Wonder  Worker  of  Padua,"  and  "A  Troubled  Heart."  In  the  former,  with  the 
combination  of  the  twentieth  century  man  of  culture  and  the  simple,  unquestion 
ing  faith  of  the  peasant  of  the  ninth  century  he  tells  of  the  Saint  he  loved— Saint 
Anthony,  and  the  miracles  he  performed.  No  unbeliever  he!  Out  of  the  largeness 
of  his  own  soul  and  its  childlike  simplicity  he  poured  his  belief:  God  is  great,  God 
is  loving,  God  is  tender,  God  is  our  Father,  and  to  bless  His  children  He  will  allow 
His  devoted  servants  to  do  any  wonderful  thing  they  will.  "A  Troubled  Heart 
and  How  it  was  Comforted  at  Last,"  was  such  a  childlike  outpouring  of  the  soul 
before  God  and  man  that  its  very  simplicity  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  at  least 
one  reader,  not  one  of  his  accepted  faith,  yet  one  to  whom  the  sweet  and  tender 
confidences  came  with  vividness  and  power. 

In  this  one-sided  glance  at  Mr.  Stoddard's  work  I  have  mentioned  eight  books 
—all  of  them  prose  and  all  possessed  of  this  personal  charm.    Yet,  strange  to  say, 


49  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

he  began  his  literary  life  as  a  poet,  and  as  a  poet  he  was  always  known.  This  is 
the  more  remarkable  when  it  is  recalled  that  for  many,  many  years  he  scarce 
wrote  a  line  of  poetry.  Just  a  few  times  between  the  years  of,  say,  1876  and  1905 
he  tempted  the  muse,  otherwise  all  he  wrote  and  published  was  prose.  But  what 
kind  of  prose?  Oh,  that  I  had  the  space  of  a  dozen  booklets  of  this  size  to  call 
the  attention  of  its  readers  to  the  richness  of  his  prose!  I  have  been,  in  my  half 
century  of  life,  not  a  lazy  reader  of  the  best  our  language  affords  of  poetry  and 
prose,  yet  it  has  been  seldom  that  I  have  found  such  thrilling  satisfaction  as  has 
often  been  given  to  me  in  reading  what  Stoddard  has  written.  Take,  for  instance, 
his  description  of  a  skylark  singing,  heard  as  he  walked  from  Stratford-on-Avon 
to  Shottery,  and  given  on  pages  80,  81  and  82  of  "Exits  and  Entrances."  I  have 
read  Shelley's  "Ode  to  a  Skylark,"  both  in  solitude  and  to  many  and  varied  audi 
ences,  and  every  student  knows  its  rich  and  exuberant  poesy.  Its  play  of  fancy 
sets  it  apart  as  one  of  the  purest  and  richest  of  England's  many  fine  poems.  Yet 
here  comes  Stoddard,  a  stranger  to  England,  a  Californian,  and  in  prose  as  rich, 
florid,  eloquent,  and  pure  as  is  Shelley's  poetry,  he  gives  a  literally  true  description 
— not  a  poetic  fancy — of  the  bird  whose  singing  rivaled  that  of  the  mocking-bird 
he  knew  so  well.  This  description  is  chosen  to  open  the  series  of  California  Clas- 


California  Classics  Series  50 

sics.    It  is  worthy  of  perpetuation  in  most  beautiful  form,  and  this  is  an  humble 
attempt  to  give  it  a  proper  place  in  our  literature. 

But  it  is  not  alone  to  its  poetic  quality  that  his  prose  owes  its  charm,  nor  to 
that  rich  personal  touch  to  which  I  have  given  such  prominence.  Another  quality, 
almost  equally  insistent  with  these  is  always  present,  and  that  is  his  quaint,  un 
expected  humor.  Just  as  a  laughing  child  likes  to  peer  suddenly  out  of  hidden 
corners  and  cry,  "Boo!"  so  does  Stoddard  thrust  his  sly  wit  and  subtle  humor  be 
fore  you..  And  it  is  both  sly  and  subtle..  Yet  never  meanly  sly,  or  harsh.  Never 
did  he  say  an  unkind  word,  or  an  impure  one.  Humor  that  bordered  on  the  vulgar, 
or  that  relied  for  its  interest  upon  an  unclean  double  entendre  never  found  place 
on  Stoddard's  pages.  He  has  no  objection  to  giving  his  chapters  titles  that  seem 
to  be  most  suggestive  of  strange  and  awkward  situations,  but  he  does  it  all  as 
simply  and  unconsciously  as  a  tiny  child  will  come  into  a  crowded  guest-room 
clad  only  in  her  night-robe  to  bid  her  papa  and  mamma  "Good  night!"  And  if  the 
prurient  pick  up  his  books  and  begin  to  read  these  chapters  expecting  something 
risque  they  finish  every  word  of  them  and  put  the  book  aside  with  the  fever  of 
impurity  quenched  and  filled  with  a  new  refreshment  and  satisfaction  that  comes 


51  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

from  the  chaste,  the  sweet,  the  wholesome  and  the   good,   given  with   childlike 
frankness  and  ingeniousness. 

Of  his  poetry  I  might  write  almost  as  much  as  of  his  prose,  especially  if  I 
were  to  present  it  from  the  purely  Californian  standpoint.  He  was  one  of  the  first, 
as  he  was  one  of  the  keenest,  of  observers  in  the  new  land,  with  the  power  of 
expression  to  tell  in  vivid  and  rich  verse  that  which  he  saw  and  felt.  His  early 
poems,  written  in  the  'seventies  and  collected  and  edited  by  Bret  Harte  might  well 
be  used  as  studies  of  California  scenery  and  climate.  Even  in  those  early  days 
he  was  a  coiner  of  rich  phrases.  Here  are  a  few  taken  from  his  first  published 
poem  in  the  Overland  Monthly  for  July,  1860.  It  is  entitled:  "In  the  Sierras." 

"The  misty  girdle  of  the  hills  of  God." 

"My  good  horse  cast  the  snow-seals  from  his  hoofs." 

"We  there  beheld 

The  flowerlike  track  of  the  coyote  near 
The  fairy  tracery  where  the  squirrel  skipped 
Graceful  and  shy,  and  farther  on  we  saw 
The  smooth  divided  hollows  where  the  doe 
Dropped  her  light  foot  and  lifted  it  away; 
Anon  the  print  of  some  designing  fox 


California  Classics  Series  52 

Or  dog's  more  honest  paw;  the  solid  bowls 
That  held  the  heavy  oxen's  spreading  hoof; 
And  suddenly,  in  awe,  the  bear's  broad  palm, 
With  almost  human  impress." 

I  have  been  led  on  to  quote  more  than  I  intended  in  this  poetic  description 
of  "tracks."  There  are  not  many  passages  in  our  literature  that  display  any  keener 
observation  and  ability  to  express. 

Here  are  a  few  more  quotable  phrases:  "The  sky's  blue  vacancy,"  "The  sunny 
dream  of  autumn's  plentiful  and  ever-lingering,  everlasting  peace,"  "The  happy 
robin's  tender  tremuli." 

His  next  poem — in  the  August,  1868,  Overland,  was  on  the  "Snow  Plant,"  and 
it  can  be  used  as  a  description,  so  carefully  did  he  observe  and  transcribe.  In  the 
September  issue  he  gives  us  "In  Clover,"  and  in  that  occurs  this  oft-quoted  stanza 
on  the  bee: 

"0   little   hump-back   bumble-bee! 

0  smuggler!   breaking  my  repose; 
I'll  slyly  watch  you  now  and  see 
Where  all  the  honey  grows." 


53  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

In  the  November  number  he  gives  "Robinson  Crusoe — A  Dream  of  Youth," 
and  in  that  poem  unconsciously  reveals  his  love  of  the  peace  and  freedom  from 
turmoil  that  afterwards  so  lured  him  to  the  "Island  of  Tranquil  Delights."  Listen: 

"0,  happy  life  of  simple  ways! 
0,  long  recurrence  of  sweet  days! 
0,  incident  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  great  event  of  opening  flower." 

And  who  that  loves  the  robin  cannot  re-echo  two  lines  of  his  song  in  the 
December  Overland? 

"0,  call  me  with  your  warble 
Away  from  sin  and  woe." 

Such  were  Charles  Warren  Stoddard's  earliest  lays. 

In  speaking  of  the  "style"  of  Stoddard  one  other  most  important  feature 
should  not  be  forgotten.  I  know  of  no  writer  of  so-called  "profane"  literature  of 
the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries  who  uses  the  Bible  so  mucn,  and  so  well. 
The  terse,  vigorous,  condensed  power  of  this  "well  of  undefiled  English"  was  thor 
oughly  understood  by  Stoddard,  and  the  draughts  he  makes  upon  it  are  amazing. 


California  Classics  Series  54 

He  unconsciously  explains  the  reason  in  one  of  his  books  where  he  says:  "On 
leaving  home,  my  mother's  last  injunction  was  to  read  daily  some  chapters  of  my 
Bible,  and  this  I  never  failed  to  do.  What  solemn  hours  were  mine,  alone  in  my 
cramped  state-room,  poring  over  that  wonderful  volume,  and  every  day  I  became 
more  and  more  perplexed  with  its  histories  and  mysteries!"  This  early  habit  of 
Bible  reading,  and,  as  he  calls  it,  "poring  over  it,"  stored  his  retentive  memory  with 
the  most  perfect  phrases  in  the  English  language,  which,  later,  transferred  bodily 
to  his  writings,  produced  a  wonderful  effect. 

There  were  six  distinct  epochs  in  Mr.  Stoddard's  life.  There  were:  I.  His 
journey  to  California  when  a  boy.  II.  His  association  with  Bret  Harte  and  the 
other  literary  giants  of  California's  Golden  Age  of  Literature.  III.  His  first  trip 
to  the  South  Seas.  IV.  His  trips  to  Europe.  V.  His  occupation  of  the  Chairs  of 
English  Literature  at  Notre  Dame,  Ind.,  and  the  Catholic  University,  Washington, 
D.  C.  VI.  His  retirement  and  return  to  California. 

He  was  born  ni  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  August  7,  1843.  When  twelve  years  old — 
his  father  having  already  come  to  California — he  and  his  mother  made  the  journey, 
across  the  Nicaraguan  Isthmus,  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco.  Imagine  the 
twelve-year-old  boy,  just  at  the  impressionable,  adolescent  period,  and  with  his 


55  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

introspective  poetic  temperament,  taking  such  a  trip;  the  sudden  change  from 
gray-skied  New  York  to  the  flaming  firmament  of  the  near-tropics;  the  excitement 
of  going  aboard  a  vessel  in  a  great  city,  the  good-byes,  the  sailing  down  the  coast, 
the  life  of  the  sailors,  the  storms,  the  calms,  the  tropic  sea,  the  first  sight  of  palms 
and  oranges  and  Indians  and  all  the  Isthmian  wonders,  and  then  the  ship-ride  up 
the  Pacific  Coast  and  the  landing  in  weird,  wild,  excitable  San  Francisco,  just  be 
ginning  to  know  that  it  was  going  to  become  a  city.  No  intelligent  child  could 
take  such  a  journey  and  not  be  affected  by  it  so  long  as  he  lived,  but  to  such  an 
one  as  Stoddard  it  was  epoch-forming.  It  gave  him  pictures  to  brood  over,  to 
think  about,  to  dream  upon,  to  describe,  and  his  youthful  fancy,  thus  excited  into 
a  tremendous  activity,  never  again  slumbered  or  slept.  It  was  ever  wide  awake 
for  scenes  new  and  strange,  but  this  taste  of  the  sea  and  the  wild  freedom  of  the 
life  of  the  Isthmus  was  never  fully  satisfied,  though  he  took  six  or  more  trips  to 
the  Sandwich  Islands  later  on.  To  this  was  added  the  return  trip  East,  taken  two 
years  later,  with  a  sick  elder  brother  who  was  ordered  back  to  the  Atlantic  shore. 
This  was  in  a  sailing  vessel  around  Cape  Horn  and  took  ninety-one  days,  on  only 
five  of  which  did  they  see  land. 

Now  for  two  years  he  remained  in  New  England;  and,  perchance,  these  two 


California  Classics  Series  56 

years  should  be  called  another  distinct  epoch  in  his  life.  Certainly  they  were,  in 
the  effect  they  had  upon  his  later  years,  for  in  them  was  formed  the  conscious  dis 
like  for  the  harsh  and  austere  ceremonies  of  the  faith  of  his  grandfather  that  ulti 
mately  led  him  into  the  bosom  of  the  Catholic  Church.  The  experiences  of  this 
time  are  vividly  told  in  the  story  of  his  conversion.  On  his  return  to  California 
he  went  to  school  and  then  to  business,  and,  while  a  clerk  in  a  book  store,  began 
to  write  poetry  and  anonymously  send  it  to  the  local  papers.  This  led  to  his  dis 
covery  by  the  Reverend  Thomas  Starr  King,  that  Unitarian  preacher  of  large  heart 
and  discerning  mind  who  did  so  much  in  the  early  days  of  California  to  help  her 
struggling  literary  aspirants.  He  prevailed  upon  Stoddard  to  go  back  to  school, 
which  he  did,  but  the  habit  of  poetizing  continued,  and  the  Golden  Era  and  the 
Californian  (those  early  pioneers  of  California  literary  magazines)  received  many 
of  his  lines.  In  those  days  he  made  the  acquaintance — which  to  him  always  meant 
a  permanent  friendship — of  Bret  Harte,  Joaquin  Miller,  Mark  Twain,  Prentice  Mul- 
ford,  Ina  Coolbrith,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Ambrose  Bierce,  and  others  whose 
names  and  high  places  in  the  literature  of  the  English-speaking  peoples  none  will 
ever  question.  Think  what  this  must  have  meant  to  all  of  these  gifted  minds;  all 
young,  all  impressionable,  all  companionable  (more  or  less),  all  original,  all  seeking 


57  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

the  most  perfect  expression  for  thoughts  about,  and  descriptions  of,  this  great  new 
Pacific  world,  with  its  marvelous  strange  scenery,  its  Spanish,  Mexican,  Mission, 
Indian,  gold-mining,  cow-boy,  stage-driving,  pioneer  life.  No  wonder  they  wrote 
and  wrote  well.  The  conditions  were  enough  almost  to  provoke  mediocrity  into 
genius,  and  this  little  coterie  helped  each  other  to  do  most  perfect  work.  Stoddard 
tells  how  he  criticized  Miller,  and  how  Harte  and  Miss  Coolbrith  criticized  them 
both.  And  such  criticism  meant  the  eternal  betterment  of  critic  and  criticized 
alike. 

Then  came  the  founding  of  the  Overland  Monthly.  It  was  Stoddard  who 
suggested  to  Anton  Roman,  the  founder,  the  name  of  Bret  Harte  as  editor,  and 
he  and  Miss  Coolbrith,  (who  were  always  devoted  friends),  were  soon  so  deep  in 
the  plans  for  the  success  of  the  new  magazine  that  they  were  dubbed  "The  Golden 
Gate  Trinity,"  and  remained  such  until  Harte  passed  on. 

But  the  fame  of  writing  poetry  did  not  pay  Stoddard's  bills,  and  he  was 
compelled  to  look  about  for  a  means  of  livelihood,  and  it  was  thus  early  in  his 
career  that  the  dramatic  profession  was  urged  upon  him.  For  awhile  he  went  on 
the  stage,  in  buckskin  and  tinsel,  and  his  experiences,  both  outward  and  inward, 
are  deliciously  described  in  "For  the  Pleasure  of  His  Company."  He  tells  of  his 


California  Classics  Series  58 

self-discussions  as  to  his  permanency  at  such  work;  his  final  abandonment  of  it; 
his  poverty;  pawning  and  losing  his  watch;  engagement  in  book-keeping;  his  flight 
to  the  South  Seas  and  his  determination  to  stay  there.  This  South  Sea  visit  was 
the  third  great  epoch  in  his  life,  for  it  led  to  the  writing  of  his  books  on  the  South 
Seas — a  subject  in  which  he  is  confessedly  the  master  of  the  literary  world.  In 
vividness  of  description,  wealth  of  color,  rare  quaint  humor,  native  appreciation, 
deep  sympathetic  insight,  they  stand  unequaled.  Turn  to  any  page  you  will  in 
one  of  these  three  volumes  and  begin  to  read  and  you  will  not  lay  the  book  down 
until  the  chapter  or  incident  is  concluded.  Everything  is  so  natural,  so  spontane 
ous,  so  vivid,  so  naive,  that  you  are  charmed,  lured,  absorbed;  and  that  is  evi 
dently  the  secret  of  a  writer's  power. 

These  books  were  all  written  originally  as  newspaper  letters,  and  their  suc 
cess  was  so  unbounded,  that  they  opened  up  a  new  field  of  endeavor,  because  they 
afforded  an  abundant  living,  and  he  was  sent  to  Europe  to  travel^  and  write  for  the 
San  Francisco  Chronicle  and  other  papers.  In  this  work  he  saw  the  Old  World 
and  all  its  leading  lights — political,  social,  literary,  scientific,  dramatic,  editorial — 
and  thus  gained  that  mental  aplomb  that  comes  only  with  such  knowledge  and 
personal  contact.  Yet  his  plunge  into  the  civilizations  of  the  Old  World  had  such 


59  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

an  effect  upon  him  that  he  was  compelled  to  return  to  his  first  love— the  South 
Seas — in  order  to  regain  the  simple  content  his  soul  pined  for. 

Then  came  a  wonderful  change-  He  had  already  embraced  Catholicism,  and, 
to  his  great  surprise,  he  was  offered  the  professorship  of  English  Literature  at  the 
College  of  Notre  Dame,  Indiana.  He  accepted  it,  and  thus  entered  upon  the  next 
distinct  epoch  of  his  life.  This  position  he  honored  and  adorned  for  two  years  and 
then  he  was  called  to  the  higher  and  more  responsible  post  at  the  Catholic  Uni 
versity,  Washington,  D.  C.  This  was  in  1889,  and  here  he  remained,  doing  his 
work  faithfully  and  well,  beloved  of  students  and  faculty,  visitors  and  Washington 
residents,  until  about  1892,  when  he  resigned,  went  to  live  in  Cambridge,  Mass., 
and  finally  yielded  to  the  "call  of  the  West,"  and  returned  to  his  beloved  California. 

This  was  his  last  change,  his  final  epoch.  He  did  not  know  this,  though  he 
always  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  die  in  California,  but  the  day  and  the 
hour  were  mercifully  kept  from  his  knowledge  and  that  of  his  friends.  One  of  the 
last  times  I  saw  him  he  was  seriously  contemplating  a  return  to  the  East.  His 
experiences  during  the  great  earthquake  of  1906  so  shattered  his  nervous  system 
that  he  felt  himself  in  a  state  of  continuous  fear  lest  another  earthquake  should 
come. 


California  Classics  Series  60 

It  was  during  this  final  period  that  some  of  his  poorest,  and  also,  some  of  his 
strongest,  work  was  done.  He  himself  felt  keenly  his  inability  to  make  what  he 
wished  to  make  out  of  his  articles  on  the  "Romance  of  the  Missions,"  and  both  in 
our  conversation  and  correspondence  he  referred  to  it  with  gloom.  And  yet  per 
haps  nothing  he  ever  wrote,  either  in  prose  or  poetry,  will  live  longer  than  his 
poem  on  the  Bells  of  San  Gabriel.  With  all  the  sweep  of  his  old-time,  youthful 
vigor,  he  describes  the  Mission  in  its  palmy  day,  and  then  demands  to  know  where 
its  power  has  gone.  With  a  stern  "Answer  me  now,  I  pray!"  he  stands  before 
the  despoilers  of  the  Indians  and  the  Missions  established  for  them,  and  then,  with 
the  power  of  an  Elijah  or  Jeremiah,  he  empties  the  vials  of  his  wrath  as  an  aveng 
ing  angel  upon  them  for  their  vile,  degrading  theft.  But  the  sad,  insistent  re 
frain,  rings  ever  in  one's  ears,  with  an  onamatopoetic  power  that  is  seldom  found 
in  any  verse. 

"And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel!   rang  Gabriel! 
In  the  tower  that's  left  the  tale  to  tell, 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel!" 


61  Charles  'Warren  Stoddkird 

In  November  of  1908  he  wrote  me: 

"Dear  Seaceless  Wanderer — 

"I  have  crept  into  a  small  box  of  a  bungalow  to  hyburnate.  There  are  for 
little  rooms  packed  together.  A  widow,  her  daughter,  a  dog  and  a  cat  and  myself 
fill  the  place  to  repletion.  I  eat  and  sleep  here  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  if 
you  will  come.  *  *  * 

"I'd  be  all  right  but  for  my  rhumatism,  which  often  troubles  me.    Aloha!" 

I  have  italicized  three  words  in  this  little  letter  purposely.  How  we  used  to 
laugh  over  his  phonetic  spelling!  He  vowed  he  never  could  learn  to  spell.  This 
proves  he  was  right.  Dear  old  Charlie!  Who  cared  whether  you  spelled  dictionary- 
wise  or  not,  so  long  as  he  might  be  privileged  to  receive  your  letters?  In  them 
were  condensed  the  poetry,  wisdom,  humor,  insight,  passion,  love,  of  your  sweet 
and  beautiful  soul.  Now  we  shall  receive  them  no  more,  but  often,  in  spirit,  shall 
we  sit  down  and  wait,  feeling  out  towards  your  own  beautiful  spirit  until  we  are 
filled  with  its  richness  and  love.  For,  in  this  little  bungalow,  on  the  sixth  of  April, 
1909,  the  call  for  the  higher  and  newer  life  came  to  him — the  call  that  all  must 
obey— and  the  earth  lost  all  but  the  mortal  part  of  Charles  Warren  Stoddard. 

(Reproduced  from  The 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  quotations  of  this  booklet  are  taken  as  follows,  and  due 
acknowledgement  for  their  use  hereby  gratefully  tendered: 

"The  Apostrophe  to  the  Skylark"  is  from  "Exits  and  Entrances," 
published  1903,  by  Lothrop  Publishing  Company,  Boston,  Mass. 
"The  Bells  of  San  Gabriel"  is  from  the  "Sunset  Magazine,"  Charles 
Sedgwick  Aiken,  editor,  published  San  Francisco,  Calif.  "Joe  of 
Lahaina"  is  from  "South  Sea  Idylls,"  originally  published  in  1873. 
Republished,  1904,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  New  York.  "Father 
Darnien  Among  His  Lepers"  is  from  "Lepers  of  Molokai,"  published 
by  the  Ave  Maria  Press,  Notre  Dame,  Indiana.  The  appreciation  of 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard  was  originally  printed  in  The  Redwood, 
Santa  Clara  College,  Calif. 


This  is  the  last  page  of  the 
first  of  the  Arroyo  Guild's 
California  Classics  Series, 
devoted  to  the  life  and  works 
of  California  authors.  The 
first  author  presented  is 
Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  of 
sweet  and  precious  memory. 
Herein  are  choice  quotations 
from  his  works  and  an 
humble  appreciation  hy  his 
friend,  George  W  h  a  r  t  o  n 
James,  who  is  responsible 
for  this  booklet.  Done  in 
the  year  of  Our  Lord  1909, 
in  the  month  of  November, 
at  the  Arroyo  Guild  Press, 
201  Avenue  66  (Garvanza), 
Los  Angeles,  California 


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